


the magic you won't ever see

by nahco3



Category: Pod Save America (RPF)
Genre: LA era, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-04
Updated: 2017-06-04
Packaged: 2018-11-09 02:09:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11094693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nahco3/pseuds/nahco3
Summary: I wanna be the best you've ever known/ just let me in your arms





	the magic you won't ever see

**Author's Note:**

> this is a product of my imagination and obviously it's not real at all! please don't share this with anyone mentioned in this fic.

The light is filtered gold and the shadows are stretching long by the time they leave work. Jon puts on his hoodie before they leave and Tommy starts laughing.

“What?” he says, defensively. “It’s cold.” 

“It’s like seventy,” Tommy says, “objectively it is not cold.” Tommy’s just in his t-shirt and jeans. It’s the beginning of June in Los Angeles, for fuck’s sake.

“Look, I’ve gone native,” Jon says. “Seventy is freezing and if I didn’t have a sweatshirt it would be like fucking Amundsen going to the South Pole over here, I’d be eating the sled dogs and polar bears to survive.”

“There aren’t any polar bears at the South Pole,” Tommy says. “Also, you’re wearing shorts.” They’re distracting -- above the knee, tight, so that Tommy can see the contour of his thighs clearly, the pale skin at the underside of his knees. Tommy’s been thinking about them all day: thoughts buzzing in the back of his mind while he tried to figure out their invoice system and while he drafted an email to someone at State and while he skimmed the news coming out of Syria. The kind of thoughts that used to make him press the heels of his hands to his eye sockets, pushing in until his vision blurred. Now, after New Orleans, they’re the kind of thoughts that make him come untethered, years of want and not enough time. 

“Don’t condescend to me about polar exploration, Thomas,” Jon says, grabbing his backpack and his tote bag. It’s amazing how much stuff he brings with him everyday. “I’ll have you know I took a class about it.”

Tommy grabs his messenger bag, pulls it over his head and holds the door open for Jon. "You took a class on polar exploration?” Tommy says. “When Favs wanted to do a company retreat in Yosemite you said it was homophobic and that you’d report him to HR.” He locks the office while Jon waits for him.

It’s a short walk from work to Jon’s house. Of course it is; it couldn’t have been any other way. Tommy always wonders if Jon realizes the way he and Favs orbit him. Tommy thinks he doesn't; he can’t, or he’d be endlessly smug about it. At first, Tommy was ashamed of how transparent he was, his feelings bursting out of his chest as desperate laughter and creeping blushes. But because Jon never looked twice, Tommy could look all he wanted. Even now, after New Orleans, Jon’s deliberately obtuse about it, rolls over afterwards to take a shower, always surprised when he comes back and Tommy’s still there. As though he’s giving Tommy an excuse to leave, unobserved. As though there’s anything Tommy wouldn’t do for him.

“Yes,” Jon says, like Tommy’s the one being particularly slow. His eyes are bright and pleased. “Because I took a class on polar exploration.” Jon’s getting going now, walking backwards ahead of Tommy so he can watch Tommy lose it. “It all starts out as fun and games, _oh, the king of Denmark wants to fund a trip to the North Pole, oh let’s take motor cars and horses, let’s hike Half Dome, it’ll be fun_ and before you fucking know it, me and Favs are cannibalizing you.” They’re at a red light; Tommy grabs his shoulder before he walks into traffic, his thumb dipping under the soft fabric of Jon’s t-shirt. He rubs it over Jon’s collar bone, back and forth, easy. Jon swallows. The other people waiting at the light are giving them a wide berth.

“Why me?” Tommy asks. 

“Because you have the most muscle mass, obviously,” Jon says. The light changes and Tommy gives him a little push, to get him going. Jon starts walking again, and Tommy moves his hand, so that he’s cupping Jon’s shoulder. It makes him easier to steer. “I mean, eating Favs would just be impractical, he’s all lean muscle and two percent body fat, we might as well just boil tree bark. And I’m,” he gestures to himself, “thick and juicy, but in the long run that’s not going to give you much energy so it all comes down to you.” 

“Thanks,” Tommy laughs. Jon’s neck is tilted up a little to look at him. Tommy wants to pull him in and kiss him until neither of them can breathe, wants to get his hands under Jon’s shirt, to bite the white skin there, wants him naked and undone, wants every word and gasp, every thought, every single thing that’s Jon’s. 

“Go left here,” he tells Jon, squeezing his shoulder. “Your left, not mine.” Jon turns and Tommy follows onto Jon’s street. 

“Well, you brought it on yourself,” Jon says, as though Tommy never interrupted his rant. “All the protein powder and powerlifting.”

“I don’t powerlift,” Tommy says, “I just lift.”

“Oh my god,” Jon says, “I can’t believe you’re making me talk about your work-out regime, I feel like it’s sophomore year of college again and I accidentally went to a lax party.” 

Tommy laughs, helpless, his head thrown back. Jon stops short and Tommy bumps into him. Tommy pulls Jon a little closer to him so that Jon’s hips are pressed against Tommy’s thighs. His hand tightens on Jon’s shoulder. Jon is still watching his face, has been the whole way home, but it’s harder to read now, the gleeful look gone, a bitter quirk to his lips. Tommy wants to ask him what he wants from Tommy, but he’s afraid of what the answer will be. 

“Oh look,” Jon says, before Tommy can do anything, “I’m home.” He steps away from Tommy and Tommy lets his hand fall from Jon’s shoulder. “See you tomorrow,” he calls over his shoulder, heading across his lawn to the door. Tommy wipes his hands on his shirt, feels his chest crack open, that old familiar feeling. 

Jon opens the door and gets down on his knees, lavishes Pundit with kisses as she jumps on him. Tommy stands at the edge of Jon’s lawn, like a voyeur, like a fucking idiot. He almost gets away with it but Pundit breaks free from Jon and runs towards him. He catches her by the collar and scoops her up before she makes it to the street, but now Jon’s looking at him from his front step. 

She twists in his arms, trying to lick his chin, as he carries her back to Jon. She’s small and warm in his arms. “I think this belongs to you,” he says, handing her over. Their arms brush. It’s inescapable. 

“Were you going to stand there all night?” Jon asks. “Are you like, a vampire? Do you need an invitation to cross the threshold?” He bends down and shoos Pundit back into the house, and she scampers out of sight. 

“I assumed,” Tommy says, then stops and recalibrates. “You said, ‘see you tomorrow.’” 

“Well, I didn’t think you were going to stand on the corner like some sort of,” Jon stops, “I don’t know, sex offender or something, jesus.” Tommy barks out a laugh. “Come in if you want.” 

He does want. Sometimes it feels like Tommy is nothing but fucking unattainable desires barely held together. There are so many things he’ll never have -- a summer wedding, another conversation with his dad about how terrible the Red Sox bullpen is, faith in his country and his government, an uninterrupted night’s sleep -- he can’t deny himself this, even though it’s nothing close to enough. 

Jon’s still talking. “I don’t have a lot of food but I think I have some beer and like, leftover Thai? We could postmates something but you have to pay for it because I wasn’t going to order out tonight, or we could --” 

Tommy grabs Jon’s hips and pushes him back into his house, up against the wall next to the door. He drops to his knees, holds Jon there. He digs his thumbs in just a little to the soft skin over Jon’s hip bones. God. 

“I’m going to suck your dick,” he says, looking up. Jon’s head is thrown back. “If that’s ok.”

“Jesus christ,” Jon says, grabbing his shoulder, nailing digging in. Tommy bites his lip. “You wouldn’t even -- the door’s still open.” 

Tommy reaches out, grabs the edge of the door and slams it shut. He pushes Jon’s shirt up and kisses his stomach, his other hand unzipping the fly of Jon’s shorts. “You’re insane,” Jon says, his voice already breaking a little. Good. Tommy pulls Jon’s shorts down, leaves them around his ankles, run a hand down the backs of his thighs, bites down over Jon’s hips, right above the waistband. “Like, I knew there was something seriously fucking wrong with you,” Jon says, a hand in his hair, back and forth, more gentle than Tommy would be, “when you -- fuck -- voluntarily talked with reporters every day, but I had no idea, I had no idea, oh my god, Tommy.” 

Tommy puts one hand back on Jon’s hip to hold him in place, pulls back from the mark he’s been sucking into the very top of Jon’s thigh, where the skin is so thin and smooth, like it’s never been touched. He can feel Jon’s pulse there. 

“You want me to blow you?” Tommy asks, as if Jon hasn’t said anything. It drives him crazy when he thinks Tommy’s ignoring him. 

“Do I,” Jon stutters, almost managing to sound furious. It makes Tommy smile into his skin. “You’re, you would have with the door open, you still have your fucking messenger bag, you --” Tommy pushes Jon’s legs further apart, as far as the tangle of his shorts around his ankles will let him. It unbalances Jon and he catches himself on Tommy’s shoulders. It’s a good feeling, holding Jon up, taking him apart. 

“It’s a yes or no question,” he tells Jon. He bites down again, on the meat of Jon’s inner thigh and he can feel Jon struggle against his hands, just a little. 

“Fuck,” Jon says. He’s pulling at Tommy’s shirt, his hair, moving his hips as much as he can. Tommy kisses where he bit, slow, easy. He’s squeezing Jon’s hip as hard as he can, digging into the soft skin of his back, just above his ass. “What kind of --” Tommy rests his forehead against Jon’s stomach, finally presses his mouth to the damp fabric of Jon’s underwear. Jon’s so hard already. “Tommy,” Jon whines. Tommy opens his mouth, sucks through the fabric, then pulls back again, just barely. He can’t make himself go farther. He needs Jon to give in, needs it too much, with every part of him. 

“Yes or no,” he says, his lips brushing Jon. “Call it.” Jon tries to work his hips forward and Tommy pushes them back, so they’re pressed against the wall.

“Yes,” Jon says, his hands falling back off of Tommy’s shoulder, limp. Tommy can hear the thud as his head hits the wall. Tommy pulls Jon’s underwear away and sucks Jon down. 

Jon makes a noise, something between an exhale and a moan, desperate. Tommy’s heart is beating so high and hard in his chest, his dick aching. Jon’s knees give out, his feet sliding forward and Tommy has to hold him up against the wall, his muscles straining. He can’t spare a hand to get himself off but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters but the sounds Jon’s making, past words, broken syllables, things that Tommy can pretend are the start of his name. 

He should go slow, tease Jon, draw this out, but he can’t. He never can. He’s too greedy, needs it too much and Jon’s finally letting him take it. He takes Jon as deep as he can, all the way down, wants to be hoarse tomorrow. Wants to feel every part of this forever. 

Jon comes, little noises speeding up and then breaking apart. Tommy holds him up through it, through his shaking afterwards. He pulls off Jon’s dick slowly, sucks on the head just a little more, until Jon whimpers and then until he moans. Jon’s thighs are shaking; so are Tommy’s arms. He kisses Jon’s dick one more time, then his hip bone, then releases him, lets him slide down the wall so Jon’s sitting on the ground in front of him, his legs spread as far as they can. Tommy crawls forward to kneel between his thighs. 

Jon’s lips are bitten pink. Tommy kisses him, hands on Jon’s shoulders, on his neck, on his cheeks. Jon’s still uncoordinated, sweet, letting himself be kissed, letting Tommy kiss him. For a long time, all Tommy can hear is their breathing, the soft noises Jon makes into his mouth. He’s so hard but he can’t make himself move his hands away from Jon’s hair, the dip between his clavicles. 

Jon leans his head back, pulling away from Tommy faster than Tommy can follow. “Bed,” he says. His voice is a mess. 

Tommy lets out a harsh exhale through his nose. It feels dangerous; like he’ll be too much. He should ask if Jon’s sure. He doesn’t. He shifts over to one side of Jon, takes a second to get his feet under him because it would be pretty fucking embarrassing if they both fell over while he tried this. He loops one arm under Jon’s knees and the other behind his back, then stands, picking Jon up like he’s a bride. 

Somehow he gets them to the bedroom. Jon is kissing his neck, biting at his jawline, giggling a little. Tommy sets him down carefully on the bed, steps back. Jon wiggles the rest of the way out of his shorts and underwear, pulls off his shirt. Tommy drops his messenger bag on the ground with a thud. Hopefully he didn’t just break his laptop but he doesn’t give a shit, really. Every time he gets naked in front of Jon he feels like he’s 18 again, nervous and rushed and not sure what to do. Jon’s watching him, not like it’s a bit or a joke, just watching him, his eyes dark. 

Tommy gets on the bed next to him, kisses him again and again. 

“I like kissing you,” Jon says, like he’s complaining. 

“I like kissing you too,” Tommy says, his hands gripping Jon’s biceps. He takes a breath it, holds it, breathes out. “Can I fuck you?” 

“Not this again,” Jon says, laughing, already back to his prickly self. It makes Tommy ache. “Yeah, sure. Duh.”

“Duh,” Tommy repeats, astounded. As though it would be self-evident. As though Tommy didn’t follow Jon home, as though Jon -- it doesn’t matter. He leans over Jon to get lube and a condom from the bedside table. 

“I assume you have a plan,” Jon says, running his hands down Tommy’s chest, resting them on Tommy’s abs. 

“I do,” Tommy admits, nudging Jon’s knees apart again. Jon leans back and Tommy gets a pillow to put under him. “But I’m open to notes.” 

“I wanted to ride you,” Jon says, “but I don’t think I can, after that. This is fine.” 

“Fine,” Tommy repeats. He slicks up his fingers, digs the thumb from his other hand into one of the bruises he left early. 

“God,” Jon says head falling back. Tommy runs the pad of his thumb over Jon’s hole, barely presses in. “I’m in my thirties, Tommy. I’m not going to get it up again.” 

“It should still be good for you,” Tommy says. Jon props himself up on his arms and frowns at Tommy and Tommy stills his hand.

“You know,” Jon says, voice sharp, “not everyone I’ve fucked before is a fucking monster.”

“I know,” Tommy says. He should have just jerked off in the hallway, slumped against Jon’s shoulders with Jon running his hands down his back. Jon fucks his hips down, sharp, and Tommy’s thumb slides into him. 

“So don’t act like it,” Jon says, arching his back. “Another finger.”

Tommy obeys, taking his thumb out and pushing in two fingers. He moves them slowly, carefully, until Jon drops his head back again, baring his throat, eyelashes fluttering. 

“I bet I could make you come again,” Tommy says, soft. Tommy can feel Jon go tense. “Slut,” Tommy adds, and Jon relaxes. 

“Better,” Jon says, waving a hand for Tommy to continue. Tommy takes a deep breath and does, three fingers. It’s stupid that he has to close his eyes for a second, just to keep control of himself. He’s less careful this time, fucks Jon harder, rubs at his prostate. He runs his other hand up and down Jon’s dick; he can still feel his spit on it. Jon curses, kicks at him. He’s getting hard again.

“Told you I’m going to make you come again,” Tommy says. 

“Fuck,” Jon says. He has an arm thrown across his eyes. “Fuck I shouldn’t have -- fuck -- Tommy --” Tommy starts jerking him off for real, grip just a little tight. “Too much.”

“Shhh,” Tommy says, curving his fingers inside Jon, merciless. Jon’s chest is rising and falling fast, the hand that’s not covering his eyes clenched in the sheets. “You want it,” he tells Jon. 

“God,” Jon says. He’s rocking his hips down into Tommy’s fingers, up into Tommy’s grip, his cock leaking. “Fuck me.” Tommy’s lightheaded with how much he wants him. He leans forward and kisses him and Jon bites his lower lip, sucks at his tongue. 

“You really want it, don’t you?” Tommy asks him, pulling back. It slips out. He shouldn't keep asking Jon shit like that; it’s too close to what he wants to say. Jon tries to sit up and keep kissing him but Tommy takes his hand off Jon’s dick to hold him down. 

“Yes,” Jon says. “God.” He bucks his hips back. “Fuck.” 

“Hold on to the headboard,” Tommy tells him, and Jon does, too quickly. Jesus, what he wants to do to Jon, what he would do given half the chance. Tommy bites at Jon’s biceps, hard, harder than he means to, fucks a fourth finger into Jon. 

“Please,” Jon says, moving his hips, moaning, one of his half fake moans, the kind he thinks Tommy wants to hear. “Fuck me. I wanna come on your dick, Tommy.” 

“No,” Tommy says. He hikes one of Jon’s legs up onto his shoulder, turns his head to kiss Jon’s knee. Jon makes a different noise, lower, needy. Better. He spits on his hand and puts it back on Jon’s dick and Jon keens. 

“Tommy,” he says, and then nothing, just a gasp. Tommy knows his fingers are better for Jon than his dick is, knows he can get him off like this, likes the desperate pushes of Jon’s hips like he can’t decide to move them forward or backward. 

“Jon,” he says. His voice is a mess. Fuck. “Talk.” He has to know. 

Jon lets out a shattered breath. “What,” he says, and then, “Tommy.” Tommy’s glad Jon’s gripping the headboard still, white-knuckled, because he can’t cover his face. His eyes are shining. Tommy turns his head and kisses Jon’s thigh again, because it’s what he can reach, because it’s all he ever wants. He runs his thumb across the head of Jon’s dick, curls his fingers in him. “Too much,” Jon says, and comes all over himself. 

Tommy lets Jon’s leg slide off his shoulder, kisses the mess on Jon’s stomach. Jon’s breath comes in rasps and when Tommy looks up, there are tears running down his cheeks. 

“You can let go,” Tommy tells him, and puts on the condom. He’s not going to last long. 

“God,” Jon says, when he pushes in. He’s loose, all the way relaxed again, gone somewhere in his head, somewhere that makes him gaze up at Tommy. He loops his hands around Tommy’s neck but he’s limp otherwise. 

“Jon,” Tommy says, and kisses him. He’s everything, being inside him is too much, not enough. It takes Tommy apart. “Sweetheart.” 

Jon makes another noise, sweet, soft, yielding. He rubs his nose against Tommy’s cheek like he can’t find his mouth. Tommy kisses his cheek, bites his earlobe. He’s lost; he comes. 

It takes him a while to come back to himself. Jon is rubbing his back, murmuring something. Tommy presses his mouth to Jon’s shoulder, too open-mouthed to be a kiss. 

“Tommy,” Jon says. “God, Tommy.” Tommy shuts his eyes for just a second. He can feel something run down his face, maybe sweat, maybe tears. Jon’s pressing his face into Tommy. He lets himself feel everything, until it’s too much, until he can’t take it anymore. 

He pulls out, kissing Jon’s neck in apology as Jon makes another little noise. He takes off the condom, ties it off, throws it on the floor and then flops down next to Jon again. Jon rolls over so he’s half draped on top off Tommy, his face buried in Tommy’s shoulder. Tommy runs a hand down his arm and Jon grips Tommy’s hip. They’re quiet for a long time. 

“What are you thinking?” Jon asks, finally. Tommy can feel the words on his skin.

“We need a shower and dinner,” Tommy says. “I’m buying.”

“Fucking right you are,” Jon says, but doesn’t move. Tommy turns his head just a little bit and presses his lips to Jon’s temple. 

“Whatever you want,” Tommy promises.

**Author's Note:**

> a thousand thanks to [threeturn](http://archiveofourown.org/users/threeturn/pseuds/threeturn) and [veryspecificfantasies](https://veryspecificfantasies.tumblr.com) for beta-reading this for me; they make everything I do so much smarter and better. thanks also to the anon on my tumblr for asking for blowjob porn, and to the entirety of this little fandom for being so kind, so funny and so smart. title and summary are from Carly Rae Jepsen.
> 
> you can always find me on [tumblr](https://baking-soda.tumblr.com).


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